Are you a TIGER?

Most of the time I love crazy people.

Last night I stopped at Cafe Abir for a cappuccino on my way to tutoring (I tutor a 16 year old girl every Wednesday). I've been going there for 11 years now, on and off. For the entire time, a man has been working there who, as the years go by, has slipped deeper and deeper into annoying insanity. Cafe Abir is connected to a sushi restaurant and a sake store. Since the sake store opened, I believe he's been annexed to that area for its lack of customers. Yesterday, however, he was in the actual cafe.

He's a tiny man, with an English accent worn smooth by too much time in the States. A few years ago, he dedicated himself to growing out the wiry halo of hair remaining on his head. A miserable pony tail has since sprouted from the base of his skull. It's the kind I fantasize cutting off with a clean snip. Lucky for the world of male pony tails, you can't just cut one off in the clean snip and slink away into the shadows unnoticed. You really have to work to cut one off. I've seen it done on What Not To Wear, and noted it in the "Things I can't do" section of my brain.

When I walked up to the counter, he was being verbose and loud with a couple he clearly knew from previous orders. Every sentence was accompanied by big sweeping motions of his arms and hands. His accent was heavier and more Renn Faire-ish. Actually, he was speaking his own brand of Ye Olde English. You probably know, Renn Faire people confuse and embarrass me. I try to avoid them. He also sounded a little like Stewie from Family Guy, now that I think of it.

While he was taking his time writing on a paper cup to be used for the couple's order, they walked away. He turned to me and said, "What do you want, WOMAN?" I could have played along. It was my choice, at that point. But screw that. I suddenly found myself in shanking mode.

"Ah, I'll have a large non fat cappucino," said with death lasers coming out of my eyes.

"OH! You're a TIGER! GRRR!! Are you a TIGER?? Is that your BIRTH year??" he asked while making one of those cat scratching motions WAY too close to my boobs. He was referring to the Detroit Tigers hoodie I was wearing. Goddamn it, why don't I carry mace?

"Are you actually ready to take my order?"

"No, not really." And he continued to write on the cup from the last order. I swear to god he was holding it up like Hamlet holding up Yorick's skull.

"Well, why don't you let me know when you're ready." He was visibly disappointed I didn't want to play his little game and that I was starting to be a bitch about it. What I really wanted was to be anonymous-coffee-orderer so that I could get to tutoring on time.

"Are you having a bad DAY?" he asked in Renn Faire voice. I really hate when people piss me off, then blame my day for it. My day was just fine. There was nothing wrong with my day.

"No, my day was great. You're just driving me nuts." He was almost speechless. But not quite. At that point he went into mock-employee mode asking me what I wanted and being snidely courteous about everything in his hammed up accent. His face needed punching.

He returned my change, and I walked away. "You're welcome!" I was just so glad to be away from him, I could not care. I waited for my cappuccino for 10 minutes while he made a big deal of making the couple's drink first, then taking his sweet time to make mine. I knew my cappuccino was going to suck, and I considered just walking away from the money I'd spent to save myself the stress of standing there waiting. Instead I used my phone as a life line and texted a couple people. Eventually, he called my drink, I grabbed it and turned, in the same manner, away from him and got another "You're welcome!" Again, I could not have cared less. I just wanted away from the madness.

The cappuccino truly sucked. I drank every drop.

Me as a kid #3

When I was almost 6, we moved in to our house on Gardendale. The first night we spent in the house, I was playing in my room by myself and discovered there was a chain lock. I'd never had such privacy in my entire life and was thrilled I could keep people out whenever I so chose. Yes, I was five years old.

For novelty's sake, I locked the door and continued playing. When I decided it was time to rejoin my family, I climbed up on a chair to slip the chain from the lock. It wouldn't budge. Since birth, I've been a quick-to-panic type person. My fight or flight mode is on constant overdrive, which caused me to start yanking on the chain and yelling bloody murder. Everyone immediately come to my rescue, because I'll need you all. Or else I'll have to live in here for forever.

Through the opening the chainlock affords, I can see my mom's face first, then my dad, and my Uncle Jack. My grandma and grandpa were probably there too. There were a lot of faces on the other side of the door crack. Uncle Jack tried to get at the lock with a knife (the men in my family always have knives on them). Someone tried to reach their hand in. Ultimately, they had to calm me down, get me to shut the door (no easy feat when all I wanted to be was with the faces on the other side of the door), and explain that I must press the chain lock down and then over. When the door finally swung open, it seemed like a lot of panic for nothing.

HOWEVER

From that time on, I had weird uncomfortable fantasies about being trapped in my room for... forever. Sometimes I would imagine an evil man keeping me there, but most of the time I imagined the world had exploded, and my room was the last vestige of human existence floating in space. But I was always trapped for extended periods of time. I just assumed the duct work in that house to be space travel worthy.

What was my main concern? FOOD. Yes, the longest love affair of my life has been with food. And weird fantasy world part of my brain is not exempt. Oddly, my fear of going without food did not manifest itself with actual food. My preparation for the inevitability of being the last human survivor in the universe was to bring glasses of different things into my room and hoard them. Mainly I'm talking milk and orange juice. Have you ever lived in a room with rotting milk or orange juice? I'm not sure how I did. It got to the point where I knew how long a glass had been in my room by its state of decay. A regular scientist.

My theory was simple. Although the concoctions were foul, the solids which formed could serve as nutritious food, while the "water" that had separated from the solid could serve my hydration needs. I was able to kill two birds with one putrid stone.

Eventually, the glasses became so frought with decay, I knew I couldn't stomach them even in the event of annihilation. I'd rather starve than consume what was in the glass. Or my mother would notice that the majority of the McDonald's glasses were missing and insist I retrieve any I may have from my room (eventual space pod). She must have noticed the mold because I recall always having to wash them myself. After I scrubbed the mold from the Ronald and the Hamburgler glasses, I could feel free to start my hoarding cycle all over again. Except the next time, I'd go with Grimace.

Me as a kid, 1&2

I think we all need a blog where we remember the crazy things about our own childhood. I'm going to start digging around in my brain.

1. I had a good sized room when I was a kid. It had a big closet with the double sliding doors. When I was around 11 years old, the inspiration to maximize my space came to me. Naturally, the best way to do that was to sleep in the closet. It was basically the size of a twin bed in width, and the length would more than accomodate me. For bedding I laid a couple of sleeping bags on the floor. It must have been spring because the weather was decent, but I remember my mom waking me up in the closet for school. I recall having visions of building some sort of sleeping loft in there. While my mother didn't mind where I slept, so long as it was in my own room, I don't think she bought into the building aspect of it. My forte was ideas, not necessarily execution, so the loft part fell by the way side.

Also, I had a thing with outer space when I was a kid. Sleeping in a closet felt like a tight space, and tight spaces felt like rocket ships? Pretty sure that's how it went.

After a few weeks, sleeping in the closet shed its novelty. It just wasn't practical. I was an 11 year old with a double bed and a large room. Where I come from, that's nothing to sneeze at. The sleeping bags were wearing thin, and my young back started to ache. Experiment abandoned.

2. Speaking of outer space. I had a ton of junk jewelry. Stuff no one wanted and tossed my way. While I did it every once in a while, I wasn't a big player of dress-up, so a large collection of tacky bobbles just wasn't necessary. One day I got bored and cut the necklaces up. I kept all the beads. Flashy sparkly chunky beads. When I was on my own in my room, which was often, I'd pretend my room was floating in space and the beads were actually space food. A friend spent the night once and I tried to introduce this fantasy game to her. She really couldn't fathom the excitement space travel had to offer, let alone the thrill of eating food you'd never eat on Earth. After that, I stuck to playing space room on my own.

technology is a wonderful terrible thing

This is a copy of an email I wrote today to someone on a dating site. I think it'll make sense without much backstory. but for those of you who don't know, "winking" is the chicken way to get someone's attention on a dating site. the recipient gets a notice that someone has winked at them along with a link to the winkers profile, without any personal message from the winker. Very low risk for the winker.

so, I remember emailing/talking with you a bit at the end of 2007. we never ended up meeting, though. then about a month ago (maybe as much as 6 weeks) you winked at me. which i thought was odd. but not a big deal. all's fair in love and everything else I guess.

here's the interesting part. for some bizarre reason you showed up on my facebook list of people i may know. I clicked on your profile, then looked at your pictures. it became really clear that, at least for the last few months, you've been in a relationship with someone. then I clicked on her profile (i chose not to resist). she says she's in a relationship with you.

here's the upshot: technology is a wonderful terrible thing. it's easy to find out who someone really is, even if it's by accident. so if you're messing around on this site, you should know you can easily be found out on another.

I'm not here to judge you. Your biz is your own. I'm just sayin...

highlight of my day.

memory

I don't have a lot of memories of my dad. He died when I was seven years old, and before that, he was always at work. He was there, and I'm sure he loved us, but the personal narratives I have stored in my brain are few and far between. This is one of them.

I've always loved music. Most likely, it came from my mom and her family, a group of strikingly white haired great aunts and grandmother who probably could have formed their own singing group had they gotten along better.

I got music wherever I could get it. It started with a record player with the face of a cartoon character pasted on it. Then a Barbie record player. Both of them from a Sears catalogue. The played records, and that's what really mattered. I had disney records. Story on one side, songs on the other. My favorite songs were from The Jungle Book and Mary Poppins.

My Aunt was the source of my first great album. She'd left a pile of albums on her curb. Music she didn't want any more. I don't quite understand how one abandons music at the curb, but at six years old, I went through and took what I wanted. Among them, The Beatles - Revolver. I love that music today. Sometimes I still cry from Eleanor Rigby. For No One reminds me of my most dear adolescent boyfriend. Good Day Sunshine is remains an anthem for joy.

With music comes dancing. Like many, I danced much sooner than I walked. I can imagine my mother, 5 years younger than I am now, watching her new baby bobbling up and down at the knees and hips. Maybe a goofy drooly grin. I'm sure my mother loved it and encouraged it. Oddly, I wish I could have been there.

By the time I was six, I had become accustomed to listening to music in the morning in my room. Before school, on Saturday or Sunday mornings. And, by then, it was no secret in my family that I spent much of that time dancing. It's only for my mother's efforts I was not habitually late for school.

One Saturday morning I was in my room listening to music and dancing in front of my mirror. My door wasn't closed all the way, which wasn't unusual, except when I looked up into the vulnerable crack, there was my dad's face just beaming. His glasses, goatee, dark curly hair, big smile. Of course, I was a serious child who took herself seriously. My sense of humor ended where I began. The embarassment of being watched and enjoyed was just too much for me, and I burst into angry tears. Without a pause, my father pushed open the door, scooped me up and walked me around. Just held me. By then, my father had become truly entrenched in his work, and there wasn't much time for individual attention or affection. There's nothing I can say to describe the bliss I felt being held and comforted for those two minutes before he left for work. I was so loved. I remember the blue of the walls of the room. I remember getting a glimpse of what I looked like in my dad's arms, from the reflection in a wall mirror. My head on his shoulder, as if it happened every day.

When he put me down, I was left wanting more. So much so, he had to disentangle himself from me. At the time, I felt as if I had ruined the moment. Now I know I simply wanted more of a wonderful thing.

Well Dressed Man

On the bus to work yesterday morning, I was sitting facing the aisle. When the aisle starts to fill up with standing passengers, you tend to notice all their details. There's no window to mentally escape out of. You just stare at the wall of people, and hope no one's belly mashes you in the face after a particularly hard brake.

Yesterday, staring at the people wall, I noticed a guy. He wasn't particularly good looking, but he wasn't ugly either. He had smart glasses on, and one of those wool newspaper boy caps on. The kind Brad Pitt wears to the point of tedium. I looked at the rest of his outfit. His nicely worn satchel was the same warm tobacco color as his belt. His sweater - a thin wool with muted colored horizontal stripes - fit his trim figure perfectly, and was accented nicely by a simple clean button down underneath. His jeans were clearly a nice quality, deep blue, and straight legged. His shoes were not too pointy European, but not a bowler shoe either. In short, he was impeccibly, yet simply dressed. If a man of mine dressed like that, I'd be proud.

So, my well dressed friend got off the bus with me at Montgomery St. And then stood beside me as we waited for the light to change. I looked over at him one last time before I decided, YES, I should definitely tell him how impressed I am with his fashion choices. Wouldn't I be thrilled if someone did that for me? Stick their neck out on a Wednesday morning to spread positive sentiment? YES.

"I'm sorry, I just needed to tell you. Your outfit is SO well put together. It's just great."

"...giggle,ah,heh,giggle..."

and he walked away. He literally did not have a language driven response. On top of that, he walked away from me. I gave him a piece of cake, he gobbled it up with a big grin, and then walked away, still chewing, crumbs falling in large clusters from his mouth.

Let me be clear. I was not at all interested in this guy on the boy/girl level. But I DID think there might be the possibility of a "thank you" or a breezy conversation as we walked to our respective office buildings. There's just no accounting for people sometimes. It's ok. I hope I started his day out right.

2 Bad Things I Noticed Yesterday

Sometimes I think people wouldn't want to hear about this stuff. But then I realized it's good to expand. Is it good to expand? Maybe not always. But now, yes.

Of course, this all takes place on the bus on the way home yesterday.

1. ONE LEGGED LOOKOUT. Market Street is the big avenue leading to downtown. In Detroit, we would call it Woodward. It even runs at an angle rather than North/South or East/West just like home. When taking a bus downtown, probably half the lines will drop you off and pick you up on Market St, as does mine.

If you've been to San Francisco, you'll know we have an inexcusably large homeless population. And I'd say the majority of them are drug addicts for one reason or another. Some became homeless because of their habit. Some are self medicating a serious mental illness. I was friends with a woman who once watched a schizophrenic homeless man cross the street just to punch her in the face. We're talking seriously mentally ill people. Thank you Reagan.

Between 8th St and 5th St, you've got a LOT of action going on. Sometimes you look out the bus window, and it's like a scene from a movie. Devastated homeless, toothless addicts limping along, absolutely reeking of their own personal brand of desperation. It disgusts me at the same time I want to scoop up all these people to give them a bath for their insides as well as their outsides. I have friends who are outreach workers. I couldn't do what they do. I couldn't see this all day long without it seriously warping my head.

The first time I ever saw someone smoke crack was on Market St. For some reason many homeless feel free to do their thing on this major thoroughfare. There are little alcoves and entry ways in which to shove oneself in order to have a moment with their god, but none disguise what's going on.

Yesterday, from the bus, I saw a man do just that. Shoved face first into what I thought was barely an indent along an empty building front, I could see him hunching over a pipe with a lighter. A few feet away, I saw a woman on crutches with heavy baggy army clothes, a short punk hairstyle I associate with my childhood, peircings, and 1 and 1/2 legs. She was clearly associated with the crackie in the corner. She was clearly his lookout. Scanning up and down the street for a cop or an uptight citizen? She is one of many young people in this city I've seen with an amputated appendage. I remember explaining to my last boyfriend why they didn't have a full set of arms and legs. From my five years as a needle exchange volunteer, I knew these kids would shoot up using a dirty, barbed, old needle, and then get an infection. They'd let that infection go so long, their arm or leg (mostly legs for some reason) would become gangrenous. They'd show up at SF General to have the infection removed. That meant either an area of their body looked like someone took an ice cream scoop to the flesh beneath the skin, or they'd lost part of their arm or leg. And they hate those doctors over at SF General. They'd call them butchers when I'd ask about their freshly bandaged wounds. It seemed more like a natural resentment toward someone who took a peice of them. No matter how poisonous that peice may be.

This poor lost soul, balancing on her crutches with her 1 1/2 legs, her tough girl look, and whatever could be left of her dignity, watching out for her friend, helping him ride down the same path of self destruction.

2. SUN GAZER. Not 3 minutes later, the bus turned off onto McAllister St. That particular area has probably the worst and oldest homeless or semi homeless population. People living among rats and cockroaches, eating their meals out of corner stores, trying to stay as drunk as possible as long as possible. Fighting. Everyone is always fighting. Hurriedly frenetically crookedly striding from one corner to the next. Drug addicts have a particular sideways walk. One hip inevitably turns more forward than the other, while their arms swing wide and stiff. Especially meth addicts. More in women. And in a land where people stay young unnaturally long, there is nothing but age and exhaustion on these faces. No hope.

There is a residence hotel just off of Market, on McAllister, and when I pass on the bus, I take note of the people congregating in its lobby and on its sidewalk. Mostly, they're men, older black men, and maybe a bit more calm. They almost seem like they're in recovery. I never see a woman amongst them. Maybe this is a step up from most of the places in the neighborhood. But yesterday, there was a white man in his 30s standing outside the hotel. I looked into his upturned face, and noticed his eyes almost seemed to be in convulsions. Flittering but very hard. He was alone, and no one was taking any notice of him.

It was then I understood the angle of his face. He was staring directly at the sun. Unmoving. Eyelids convulsing. I could feel panick rising in my chest like a thermometer. He's going to burn out his eyes, I thought. For some reason, I looked around at the other people on the bus to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing. They were not. I felt as if I should yell out the bus window. "Stop staring at the sun God damnit!" Seriously. I didn't. WHY NOT? I can only assume it was my overdeveloped sense of propriety. I should have yelled. I should have yelled because no one else was yelling at that stupid fuck. What the hell was he on? Please tell me it wasn't some pathetic 60s throwback, and he was on acid. As if some other explanation would have been better. My god, just standing there in his dockers and sweater and clean shaved face. He looked completely normal in presentation. I watched so many people walk by him. Did they not notice? Or did they notice and understand he was not to be helped? Probably 1/2 a dozen people walked by while the bus was stopped in front of the hotel.

And then the bus jerked forward.

I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about him. I should have yelled. The self within myself was chiding me, I should have yelled.

Weird things that happened to me yesterday

Everything listed happened yesterday after work. Up until that point, things were going swell.

1. EAST-WEST KNEES. On the bus home, a tiny guy sat next to me. Why is it guys on the smaller side insist on doing east-west knees? I understand sitting with legs akimbo, but NOT doing hip openers, pinning my leg with either the East or West wing in the process. This is RUDE as well as confusing. He was also short enough to use my lap as his elbow rest. That's what really got me. My solution was to wedge my large bag under and up, so that he'd be forced to move his appendages from my lap. When I got up, he gave me this smile as if to say, "Thanks for being an arm rest." I was roiling.

2. PURPLE VELVET. On the bus to yoga, I was sitting minding my business, AGAIN. This time I heard one stranger say to another stranger, "Purple is my favorite color." Yoinks? This is a perfectly normal statement for one friend to say to another, or a 5 year old to anyone, but not two strangers. My little antennae perked up, as I needed to hear what came next. "My NAME is Purple. Purple Velvet. I changed my name about ten years ago." Oh jesus God GOD! I couldn't see Purple Velvet, but I suspected she's awash in... purple. The other stranger, a kind faced woman I watched closely, reacted with restraint and a greater understanding of just how deep that particular rabbit hole went. Ms. Velvet then launched into a story about a woman who loved blue. Her whole house was blue. The way she said "blue" I could tell her face was pinched with mild disgust. When I got up this time, I looked down to see a small woman around 55 with tie dyed purple leggings, a floppy purple velvet hat with a large Renaissance Festival feather limply pinned to it's side. I couldn't really focus to see the rest of the outfit, as it would have caused an anxiety attack. There might have been a blazer of purple velvet as well

3. MY THERAPIST SAID. Between the bus and the yoga studio there are 2 blocks. On the first block, I approached a group of late teen early twenties skater boys. They were laughing and joking, and all of the sudden, I heard one of them say to the rest, "Well, that's what my therapist told me..." Of course, mental health is awesome, and it's good to know this 19 year old boy was looking after his. But in the history of my being, I've never known a 19 year old boy who could so confidently and comfortably utter that phrase. Bizarre? Yes. Generally Positive? Also, yes.

4. PICKLE JAR. I have a great love of good pickles. Not Vlasic or any other crappy name brand. I'm talking the big jar of pickles with the menorah and Hebrew on it. The kind where the large garlic chunks tempt you to fish them out once the pickles are gone. It's not uncommon for me to eat one every night after I get home from yoga. Last night, I dropped the damned jar. Pickle juice everywhere. I ate both remaining pickles as I felt a pickle without its brine is like a fish out of water. It could not survive for long. Before this incident, I had vowed to be as piggy in my apartment as I wanted to be, for the weekend was coming and when it came I would clean. In the meantime, I sopped up all the pickle juice and glass, quickly realizing the smell would only go away with a good mopping. Should I break my vow of slop? NO! Instead, I reasoned, I will not be at home tonight, as I will be attending a birthday party, which leaves just this morning and tomorrow morning to enjoy the vinegarry aroma, wafting to all corners of my small home.

It was a helluvah day...

Umbrella Etiquette

Say it's raining. Say you live in a city where most everyone walks on the sidewalks at some point or another in order to get to work. Say you don't really know how to use an umbrella under these circumstances. Here are just two tips.

1. Golf umbrellas. NO. If you can house a small family under the span of your umbrella, it is not appropriate for city sidewalks. Unless you're willing to share your shelter with someone who does not have an umbrella (you get extra points if it's a stranger you don't want to have sex with). If you're from Marin and you commute to the city, this is the umbrella you leave at home for inconsiderate walks in downtown San Anselmo. I don't care how nice your suit is, your umbrella is a menace.

2. Navigating. YES. Please do, when approached by other pedestrians, move your umbrella in any one of the following directions: Up, down, tilt left, tilt right. If you insist on a one-position umbrella, you will likely poke someone's eye out or snag their hair. You have snagged MY hair before. You've almost taken my sight as well.

Anyway, I know you will not heed these tips. I will see you on the sidewalk, approaching me without a care in the world until you catch some part of my person on your umbrella spokes and I come very close to giving you a quick jab to the kidney.

useless

thong that has worn out elastic. totally... useless...

Too Legal

I called a client who had some problems with the Terms and Conditions of our membership agreement. It's not all that uncommon, but from the edits sent to me, it looked like the client had crossed out entire sections, which is not so common.

When I got a hold of the client, I was told they were crossed out because those parts of the Terms and Conditions were "too legal".

too legal

2 things that make me feel like Andy Rooney

1. Winter coats with 3/4 length bell sleeves. What? Your forearms don't get cold? You like to collect wind in your sleeves?

2. There is no such thing as the following chewing gum flavors:

• Wintermint
• Arctic Blast
• Arctic Freeze

What's more, those "flavors" don't taste nearly as good as PEPPERMINT.

I ruined the joke!

DAMN IT!

Cute guy at the deli (let me be clear, he's not really someone I'd want to date, but he's super hot in a low key kind of way and I adore joking with him). He asked me what I did for New Year's. I said I was sick (true) and stayed home. I added that it was rather enjoyable to stay home, and that NYE was really starting to lose it's sparkle for me. But, seriously, NYE lost it's sparkle around 2002, so "starting" is not exactly accurate. He said, "New Year's Eve lost it's sparkle a LONG time ago for me." To which I dryly replied, "You must be a LOT older than me." Straight faced, "I'm 75 years old." (See why I like joking with him?) Me? "I'm thirty... NINE!"

Really, genius? You lied by 3 years? Way to crap on a joke...

Then of course, I'm taking the elevator upstairs, the whole time vascillating between cringing at my part and laughing at his and then laughing at what I COULD HAVE said. When I'm thinking an emotion, it shows on my face. By the time I get to my office, I'm actually talking to myself, and one of the IT guys who normally will not afford me the dignity of eye contact walks by and hears me blathering to myself about how "I really fucked that up..."

Can I please escape me?

A holiday play in one act, with four characters

My mother's living room during the Christmas holiday. My mother, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself sitting around discussing things and watching TV.

Myself: (lightly rubbing my chin with my index finger) I have another chin hair.

My Sister-in-Law: Yeah, I get those too. I'm kind of hairy.

Myself: No you're not. You showed me your belly and you don't even have a love trail. I have to pluck love trail hairs out of my tattoo.

My Sister-in-Law: Well, look at my arm hair. You don't have ANY arm hair.

Myself: True. I don't have any arm hair. And I only have to shave my legs once a week.

My Sister-in-Law: My leg hair grows back quick. I have a hair that grows out of my forehead.

My Sister-in-Law reaches up to her forehead to search for her stray chin/forehead hair.

My Sister-in-Law: Hey! I found it!

My Sister-in-Law pulls the chin/forehead hair to extend it to its full length.

Myself: No WAY!

My Sister-in-Law grabs near the root of her chin/forehead hair and pulls the hair free from its root and hands the hair to Myself to inspect.

Myself holds the hair up to the light for further inspection, fascinated.

Myself: Wow! This is just like the hairs I pull from my chin. So crazy, it's growing from your forehead.

My Sister-in-Law: Yeah, I know!

My Mother: I never talked about this stuff, and I always thought it was just me.

Myself: Well, that's why women talk about this stuff now. So we don't think we're crazy.

My Mother: Yeah, I get it.

My Brother: (complete silence)

FIN